Oh, Whistle and Come to Us
by purplehairedwonder
Summary: Whistles had come to mean something both haunting and seductive to Blaine by the time the Warblers performed "Whistle" at Sectionals.


**Author's Note:**This was inspired by a post over at Fyeahgleemeta entitled "Warblers, Whistling, Dopplegangers, Dark Sides, and Blaine-at-McKinley Hair." After reading it, I was suitably creeped out by the prevalence of whistling in recent Warbler arrangements so had to write something.

Story title comes from the poem mentioned in that post, Robert Burns' "Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad."

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing you recognize.

* * *

**Oh, Whistle and Come to Us**

* * *

When Blaine was young, his family had a dog. Rags (Cooper, age six, had named him) was old and his hearing wasn't very good. The only language that dog seemed to consistently respond to was whistling. Blaine learned how to pitch his whistles depending on what he wanted the dog to do–several high-pitched whistles in a row as a summons, a long low-pitched whistle to mean stay, and so on. He and Cooper devised an entire language that they used until Rags died when Blaine was ten.

Until he moved out of the house to make it big in L.A., Cooper teased Blaine with their made up language, whistling at him across the house rather than calling him for dinner or to tell him to stay in his room when he had a girl over. Blaine always replied that he wasn't a dog, Coop, you can use words, but it secretly made him feel loved because he knew how much Cooper had adored that dog.

* * *

Blaine came out to his family the summer before his freshman year. He came out to Cooper first, when his brother was visiting one weekend. Cooper had been living in California for a little over two years at that point and their contact had tapered off to occasional texts and monthly phone calls, but much to Blaine's relief his brother had simply clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Just make sure to find a guy worth your time, little brother. You deserve to be happy."

While there was never any spoken disapproval from his parents, his mother had gone silent after he'd told them, and his father had walked out of the room. The house had been tense for weeks after, his mother having a hard time looking at him and his father finding excuses to work long hours in his office. That is, until he'd revealed a beat up '59 Chevy and declared that he and Blaine were going to restore it.

Blaine spent the summer working on the car, his father whistling at him to get his attention, whether to show him something in the car and explain the mechanics or to have Blaine bring him tools. Blaine and his father didn't say much to each other that wasn't car-related, but comments like, "It's nice to have some time mano-a-mano, eh Blaine?" or "Dirt and grease under your fingernails is what it means to be a man, son" made it pretty obvious to Blaine what his father was angling at.

The sound of his father's impressed whistle when they completed the car and took a picture to display in his office haunted Blaine's thoughts for months. He avoided his father's office as often as possible so he wouldn't have to see the picture, his own copy residing face-down at the bottom of his desk drawer.

* * *

During the first few months of his freshman year at Westerville High, Blaine did his best to keep his head down. He didn't tell anyone about his sexuality, still stinging from his parents' passive aggressive disapproval. But it seemed like the student body just _knew_. He was scrawny and liked to sing, and the jocks picked up on his weakness almost immediately. It started with calculating looks that made Blaine's skin crawl or hushed whispers as he walked by.

There was one out kid in the student body, Josh, and he befriended Blaine during glee club the first week of school. He was a sophomore and took to Blaine practically the minute he stepped foot in the choir room. They started eating lunch together and they met after school on afternoons they didn't have glee to study.

The catcalls and whistles started once they'd been seen eating together a couple of days in a row. The ugly sounds made the hairs on the back of Blaine's neck stand up and spurred him to walk past the groups of jocks that much faster on the way to class or rehearsal. The slurs started a few weeks later, but the whistles were what echoed through Blaine's mind, blending with the memory of his father's commanding ones and tainting the memories of Cooper's teasing ones.

The night of the Sadie Hawkins dance, Blaine and Josh stood in the parking lot waiting for Josh's dad to pick them up. They'd spent most of the evening off to the side of the gym talking, but they'd danced a few of the more up tempo dances together and, for a few hours, felt _normal._ It had been nice.

That is, until Blaine heard the whistling. He and Josh whirled around to see three football players walking toward them, the school's star quarterback at the front of the pack, a baseball bat in hand and an eerie tune on his lips.

Goosebumps ran up Blaine's arms at the dirge-like sound as Josh stepped in front of him. Josh wasn't a big guy, but he, like most people, was bigger than Blaine and had told Blaine more than once that he was protective of him. Josh hadn't had anyone to turn to his freshman year and didn't want Blaine to deal with the things he'd had to. But Blaine could see the slight tremors in Josh's arms and the tense muscles in his neck; he was just as afraid as Blaine.

Later, as he lay broken and bleeding on the parking lot ground, Blaine's mind kept replaying that haunting whistle until the world went mercifully dark.

* * *

The next time Blaine went to school, it was at Dalton Academy; the school had a zero tolerance anti-bullying policy and his parents had enrolled him after he'd been released from the hospital.

Blaine put on the blazer and tie like armor, but all he could see when he looked in the mirror were the still fading cuts and bruises on his face, the arm that was in a sling due to his dislocated shoulder, and though it wasn't visible, Blaine could picture the wicked line of stitches that wound its way around his chest from the damage that had broken three ribs.

The classes were challenging and the other boys were friendly at Dalton, but Blaine was still jumpy; unexpected and loud sounds made him flinch and he kept to himself as much as possible, catching up on the work he was behind on after transferring.

One afternoon he was sitting in the library, eyes skimming over his history text when another boy sat down across from him. Blaine started and looked up at the other boy, who gave him a disarming smile.

"Blaine Anderson, right?" he asked. For a moment, Blaine was taken aback that this boy knew his name, but he supposed a mid-semester transfer with a litany of injuries would be big news. Blaine nodded. "I'm Wes Montgomery."

The name sounded familiar, but Blaine couldn't place it. He'd been introduced to so many people since starting at Dalton that names and faces had all blurred together.

"Nice to meet you, Wes," Blaine said at last, the manners his parents had engraved in him from a young age forcing him to speak despite his nerves.

Wes' smile grew slightly at that. "I apologize if I'm interrupting," he said, nodding at Blaine's open book, "but I heard you whistling from a few tables away and just had to come over."

Blaine's mouth ran dry. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it, and dark memories threatened to resurface at the reminder. He shoved them down as hard as he could, turning his attention back to Wes. He swallowed as he searched for words. "Was I disturbing you? I'm sorry. I didn't even know I was doing it."

But Wes shook his head. "Actually, I don't know if you've heard or not, but Dalton has an a cappella group. The Warblers. We compete against other high school show choirs."

Blaine raised a curious eyebrow. It was true that he loved to sing, but he hadn't had much of a voice since the attack. He barely spoke, much less sang.

"As fascinating as that is," he replied, putting his pen down in the spine of the book, "why are you telling me? For all you know, I could be tone deaf." And then he blinked as he realized that he'd just said what seemed like more words than he'd strung together all week.

Wes laughed. "Fair enough. We're recruiting for competition season. The Warblers are popular and we had plenty of auditions, but surprisingly few members of the student body can actually carry a tune."

Blaine cracked a smile at that. There was something incredibly easy about talking with Wes, and he found that his nerves had receded completely during the conversation. "And you could tell from my whistling that I can carry a tune?" he asked, amused.

Wes cocked his head. "Educated guess." He fixed a stare at Blaine. "_Can_ you?"

Blaine snorted a laugh at the look but nodded. "Yes, I can. I was in the glee club at my old school."

He swallowed down the sick feeling that came every time he thought about Westerville High and instead focused on Wes, who looked triumphant.

"Perfect!" And then he paused thoughtfully. "Would you like to audition, Blaine? I suppose I should have asked that before assuming anything."

Blaine licked his lips as he considered. He loved singing and found he could express himself in song far better than in words, but to get up in front of people to sing would bring attention to himself—something he'd been trying so damn hard to avoid, though, he supposed, it hadn't gotten him very far at his old school.

But Dalton had a zero tolerance policy and there were other out kids in the school that weren't harassed on a daily basis as far as Blaine could tell. Westerville had a zero tolerance policy on paper, but Dalton actually enforced its rules. Maybe...

Finally he nodded at Wes. "Sure."

Wes' face lit up. "Great! Our next rehearsal is after school on Thursday. Think you could come up with something by then? It doesn't have to be perfect, just something to give a sense of your range."

Blaine nodded. "Yeah, uh, sure." He peered at Wes curiously. "All of this from a whistle?"

"From a whistle," Wes confirmed.

* * *

The night Kurt asked him to junior prom, Blaine tossed and turned, dreaming of funereal whistles. He woke up in the dark hours of the morning, grasping at his ribs and tamping down on a scream. He didn't sleep again that night, instead staring at his ceiling and humming Katy Perry songs under his breath to drown out the sounds in his head until the first rays of sunlight spilled in through the window.

* * *

The night of the prom, Blaine couldn't have been more proud of Kurt for his bravery, accepting the Prom Queen crown despite all the hatred thrown his way by his homophobic classmates. Blaine felt sick and helpless as events unfolded, but the moment Karofsky left Kurt alone on the dance floor, Blaine's feet moved before he could think. He was asking Kurt to dance before he could consider how _badly_ this could go—how badly it had gone once before…

As he and Kurt danced in front of those same hateful McKinley students, Blaine tried to ignore the sound of whistling in the back of his mind.

* * *

Blaine cried out as he clutched at his face on the floor of the parking garage. His eyes burned from the slushie, pain slicing through his face like there were glass shards in his eyes. His body spasmed against the foreign objects attacking his eyes, but he couldn't open them. Tears streamed down his face, mixing in with the sticky residue that was too much like blood…

Everything hurt as he heard whistling above him. He whimpered at the familiar haunting dirge and tensed as blows rained down on him, connecting with his chest, his back, his legs…

"—aine, honey, stay with me! Please, Blaine."

Kurt. That was Kurt's voice.

Kurt hadn't been there that night.

Blaine took a shuddering breath as the memories receded, but the pain was ever-present and he groaned.

"Kurt," he rasped out, voice raw.

"There you are," Kurt breathed and Blaine could feel the other boy's arms on his trembling shoulders.

"Hurts," Blaine whimpered.

"I know," Kurt said, his grip tightening on his arms. "An ambulance is on its way. You're gonna be okay."

Later, in the safety of his bedroom when he was in a lull between painkiller doses, Blaine told Kurt where he'd gone in the parking lot, about the sounds that still haunted his nightmares. He'd never told Kurt the full extent of what had happened after Sadie Hawkins, and out of the corner of his good eye, he saw the color drain from Kurt's face as he spoke.

When he finished, he stared down at his hands, which were open loosely in his lap, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable; now Kurt knew just how broken he really was. Part of him was terrified at how Kurt might react, but mostly he was tired, hollowed out by everything.

He blinked when he felt the mattress dip and looked up to see Kurt climbing into his bed. Kurt silently pulled Blaine's uninjured side into his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around him. And it was then that Blaine finally let himself relax.

* * *

The moment Blaine saw the Dalton blazer in the video, he knew the trophy theft had been a message for him. And so he rose to the bait, leaving glee rehearsal to head to Dalton to find out what the Warblers were up to.

Walking through the Dalton hallways, which were so familiar yet alien at the same time, left a sour taste in Blaine's mouth. Dalton had once been a safe haven for him, helping him recover in the wake of Sadie Hawkins. He'd found a home among the Warblers and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, felt wanted. He'd made friends he thought he'd keep for life.

He'd been so _grateful_.

But the only person he was still in any regular contact with was Wes, who had been furious when he'd found out what had happened with the slushie and had threatened to fly back to Westerville to deal with the Warblers himself. Blaine and Kurt had talked him out of it since he was in the middle of midterms, but Blaine appreciated the thought. He was pretty sure there were some nasty Facebook messages and phone calls instead, but he didn't ask and Wes didn't offer.

Several of the veteran Warblers had reached out to Blaine after Regionals—Trent said a group of them had come to see him after his surgery, but his mother and Kurt had run them off. Blaine had been too high on painkillers at the time to have known but found he didn't mind as much as he thought he should. Once they'd reached out directly to him, Blaine found he couldn't cut them out completely—they were too important to him—but he knew he would never be close with any of them again.

It stung, realizing what he'd lost.

But standing in the library, with the familiar blazer resting on his shoulders and feeling strangely like home, Blaine faltered in his conviction. His life was in a tailspin and every choice he made seem to make things worse. But he was wanted here; he had been safe here once and perhaps could be again. Nothing had hurt him when he'd worn the Dalton blazer; all the pain in his life could be categorized as Before Dalton and After Dalton.

Maybe he didn't have to lose everything after all…

But then he heard the whistles. The Warblers were inviting him to sing despite his protests, and the number opened with a mix of whistles and sung bars. Blaine held back a flinch; the veteran Warblers knew how Wes had recruited him his freshman year and, considering the knowing looks some of them were giving him, Blaine could tell they were aware of exactly what they were doing.

He'd never told them that the whistles from the worst night of his life still haunted his nightmares.

He briefly wondered if it would've mattered if he had.

"Everybody's got a dark side, do you love me?" he sang instead of thinking too hard, losing himself in the song. "Can you love mine?"

_Yes,_ the harmonies and whistles seemed to answer as the song died down, a whispered welcome and summons.

As Blaine sat on his bed that night, his fingers running over the familiar piping of the blazer, the sound of whistles rang through his mind, both haunting and seductive.

* * *

Blaine managed to avoid the Warblers until Sectionals. He ignored Sebastian's phone calls and the multiple Facebook messages he received after he and Sam had stolen back the New Directions' national's trophy. When he saw flashes of navy in the halls before the competition, he ducked into the choir room and absently listened to the discussions going on around him until Finn directed them to take their seats in the auditorium.

When Hunter appeared on stage to introduce the Warblers, he glanced to the side with a smirk, as though he knew exactly where Blaine was sitting. "I hope you enjoy the show," he said, oozing confidence.

And Blaine knew that had been directed at him the moment the whistles started. He twisted the program in his hands tightly as the song went on, his right eye twitching each time Hunter glanced in his direction.

_I get it_, he wanted to yell over the shrill sounds echoing in his ears. _It doesn't change anything!_

He'd made his choice to stay at McKinley to face the mistakes he'd made and to better himself. The last time he'd gone to Dalton, he'd been running from bullies. If he went back again, he'd been running from himself, and he couldn't move forward that way. He was at peace with the choice, no matter how New Directions fared in competition; he wasn't expecting another national championship with so many strong voices having graduated. Winning was never the point.

But that didn't stop Blaine from noticing just how _good_ the Warblers were. Something twisted sharply in his gut as the final notes of "Whistle" died down, and he dropped his mangled program with a sigh and clapped half-heartedly.

This wasn't over, of that much he was sure. Despite the whirlwind surrounding the phone call—god, Kurt had called him; Kurt wanted to see him; Kurt still _loved_ him—and Marley's collapse, that night he dreamed of an old dog padding over to his master after a whistle, happily wagging his tail as he was scratched behind the ears. Blaine woke up with a gasp, sweating.

* * *

_end_


End file.
